


incomplete desire

by Milestogo56 (Pink_boxers_rainbow)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AUs, Anal Sex, Angst, Bucky is the best, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Omega!Steve, Tony Stark Has A Heart, blowjob, they both have issues, will add more tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 05:12:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11821920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_boxers_rainbow/pseuds/Milestogo56
Summary: A series of my WIPs that I will complete someday.------------------------Chapter 1: the one where Steve is naked in battlefield, thanks to a villanchapter 2:  The one where they are in an unhealthy relationship





	1. The one where a villan gets Steve naked

**Author's Note:**

> Hey. I am just gonna lay all my WIPS here. In the chapter description you can probably find where this story was headed before I stopped. If you want me to continue then kindly leave a comment or ask on my tumblr.

It started on Monday. 

Or wait, Tony remembers it starting three months ago—three months ago, on a hot Friday evening. He was upgrading Clint’s bow which seemed to have somehow slowed down. The mechanisms were the same and even the circuit didn’t held anything anomalous of sort, but he wondered if it was due to Thor’s hammer which missed Barton by mere millimeters and dropped on his bow at the battlefield. Perhaps he will make a new one.  
“Sir, Mr. Rogers is asking for access. I informed him you are busy but he is persistent.” Jarvis’s voice drawled mechanically over the loud bass of shoot to thrill. 

“Huh? Let him in,” Tony said, rubbing his sweaty brows and smelling himself, which okay, he didn’t smell like a corpse. “And lower the music.”

There was a small ‘pluck’ when the glass door opened and there was Steve with his face loaded with disappointed ver. 2.5. He was holding a first aid kit, two sandwiches and glasses filled with milk. He strode over towards the table carefully keeping the plate down. 

“Tony,” Steve sighed, “Its 2 A.M.” 

“Yeah?” He says, absently while tinkering onto and tightening the string. 

“Yeah. You didn’t come up for dinner.” Steve says, hands grasping the kit. Then after a beat, “I was worried. We were worried—you were kind of injured today. “

“Is that for me?” Tony asked ignoring whatever the captain said. He grabbed one of the sandwiches and added a quick bite without cleaning his greasy fingers, he tries remembers distantly if he ate lunch—or the matter of fact a solid breakfast, which didn’t involve cheetoes. The moment the cheese and chicken hit his taste buds, he almost howled like a hungry wolf and chopped it down within seconds then secretly, or as secretly he could, eyed the other sandwich. Steve’s mouth twitched as he handed over the other one.

“Did you make this? I am going to fire my cook and keep you instead,” He moaned around a piece of chicken, “Seriously. Its orgasm in mouth—how do you even make sandwiches so good?” Tony wiggled his eyebrows biting the bread softly; Steve rolled his eyes and huffed. 

“Shut up and eat your food, mister.”

After the second piece finished Tony burped loudly and rudely trying hard to offend the picket-fence person but instead he received the look , the look Tony could swear Steve learned from all the time he spend around Pepper and Natasha. It’s kind of effective and so he frowned, tilting his head to the side. What did people expect from him? Sure, It was nice (more than that but Tony will never agree) of Steve to bring down food for him so that he doesn’t totally disintegrate into a live zombie but why he did he expect Tony of all the million fucktards in the world to be actually well mannered?

Then suddenly (Steve always moved suddenly, like the flurries—squirrels and rabbits. He wondered how) there was Steve, his shoulders squared, sitting down on Tony’s stool and into his personal space. Tony tensed slightly, his stomach going around a loop of uncoordinated lines, yet he stood straight. 

“What—“

“Your nose,” Steve says, hands intently searching for something in the first aid kit, “There is large gash on it. You left it untreated.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. I get more than that sometimes—“

“Then, Tony, you should take care of it.” Steve spoke calmly, hands moving upward with a little wad of cotton. It softly touched Tony’s nose, it stung so he hissed. Steve smiled, somewhat secretly, flicking his wrist tenderly as to not apply too much pressure. 

It took Tony by surprise; sure both of them were kind of friends now. Four months ago Steve left his piss-poor excuse of an apartment (but continued to have his bi-monthly movie marathon with 73 year old Mrs. Hudson, his ex-neighbor) and started living with the avengers. Natasha and Steve already bonded, Thor was always with Jane in middle of butt-fuck nowhere—even if he managed to spend time with them, there were always the casualties; which included car hauling mini-tournaments. Those are fun until they sober up and Tony is lying on his flat kitchen counter –buck naked, finding Natasha mumbling about red-heads and nimble hands, Clint snoring like his nose is filled with super-sticky gum. Also, his eyes were wide open. Steve mostly retired to his bedroom as soon he got a little tipsy and red while Bruce was still in his lab. 

Anyway

The thing is that it took Tony by surprise. He is used to getting gashes and cracked bones so frequently that he mostly forgets to treat them. Once there was Pepper constantly at his back—taking care of him, making him eat, sleep and be a reasonable man. But now, these few months after she broke up with him (and it hurts remembering, remembering how everything night he thought she was the one he was never going to fail) there was no one other than Jarvis or DUM-E to actually care, but then both were nothing but reminders of how empty his life is actually. Here Steve comes rather suddenly, Steve without a rotten centre, Steve who helps old ladies, who watches rom-coms with Natasha and (almost) cries. 

(They are literal girlfriends)

(He told Jarvis to save the recordings of the day Steve watched Titanic. He sobbed harder into Pepper’s shoulder while watching the first 15 minutes of ‘Up’ though.)

This Steve, whom he supposedly mistreated –supposedly, because he refuses to claim he started the kid fight— was treating his wounds with such a care that it was making Tony depressed. There is a huge ball of something constricting his throat as he watched with rapt attention; Steve’s eyes were cornflower blue with spots of deepness—dim by the lights in the lab, his lashes blond and curling, touching like feather on his pale flushed cheeks. He is tanned slightly; highlighting the freckles scattered over his nose and was biting his lower lips, full and pink, licking it sometimes to moisten. The breadth of his shoulder, the pulse on his throat, the jugular bouncing—oh, it felt like jumping off a skyscraper with wind biting on his face, exhilaration and fear churning in his body and no no no—

“-ony, Tony? Hey ,Tony?” Steve waved his hands around. He seems to forget that his body is large enough to make it look ridiculous. Yet, it was also kind of endearing. 

“Yeah?” Damn it, his voice sounded wrecked. 

“You should go to sleep.” He says, tilting his head in a way of a smile.

“Now?” Tony looked about trying to distract himself, “Come on! Sleep’s for weak.”

“You are pretty banged up now, you worked twelve hours straight—“

“It’s just 12 hours captain, you haven’t seen me work for 48 ho—“

“—go to sleep, I am going to wake you up at six.” 

“Huh? In the evening?”

“Six in the morning mister, Natasha pointed out you haven’t been working out. We need to keep you in shape. I am training you tomorrow morning.” Steve grinned, rubbing his hands slightly as if that’s the most evil plan he came up with—which, considering Steve, was the most fucked up plan he could come up with.

“You are spotting a little belly.”

(See, this is where Tony is wrong) 

Tony groaned, leaning his face on his palms. 

“I am not gonna wake up but you can try.” he says, swatting DUM-E’s claws.

“I am going to drop cold water on you, if you don’t wake up.” 

“You will not.” Tony deadpanned, trying to appear serious but failing once he caught up with Steve’s laughter. Good god, he had dimples. 

“I will.” Steve grinned, standing. 

The arc reactor isn’t working right. There is a loud thump-thump-thump like the hammer hitting on a piece of metal, only lighter and softer—much more chilling than the thing Tony is familiar with. Steve is still standing there, waiting for a response. His cheeks flushed under the softness of the light, hairs falling over his forehead. There is a kind of freeness to him today, not the strangled and tightly wound shoulder that he always harbored. He is not Captain America; he is the person behind the shield—the young stubborn boy from Brooklyn. He is Steve tonight, and there is this sudden halo of perceptive.

That is, this person is Steve Rogers—not the picket-fence guy churches are cooing over and that this guy, Steve, is quite likeable.  
Tony tries to smile, the word is tries. The muscles around his lips are kind of hard to pull so that is a half-assed attempt. He just nods therefore, hands trying to find anything around the work table so he doesn’t fidgets. Steve shakes his head, mumbling something to himself (which he does a lot) and turning towards the sliding door. He stopped mere seconds before leaving, turning his face side way.

“Good night, Tony.”

He gulps before answering, and that gulp is a mistake. Steve leaves before he can answer back, he is again left alone with empty air and whirring machines. Tony knew for sure that life liked to screw him with a plethora of high-grade rods.  
It feasibly happened 3 months ago, but here Tony would argue because the effects started on a Monday. 

 

~*~

August was too mellow without much intervention of doom or his army of fucktards. That being said, it was too calm. The avengers thrived with an itch; the whole tower had a palatable silence that Tony never thought was possible. There was something going on about in London but grand-dad fury had had to bench them from any active duty outside the US of fucking A.  
That motherfucker. 

Tony yawned moving about in the kitchen, trying to find something edible with high sugar content. Clint was already there munching on the last donuts, Tony’s last donuts. Bruce was around the counter, probably taking his god-forsaken Nepali tea; it had a god smell but tasted like raw potatoes. 

“You know,” Tony starts, picking up a piece of cold pizza (he is hungry okay?), “That. That thing is mine. As in, it has my name and all on the box.”

Clint raises his eyebrows, rolls his eyes and completely tunes out Tony’s existence. That’s rude and Tony should probably upgrade his bow into neon pink which screamed ‘hello kitty’ theme song whenever Clint shoots. That would awesome; if he didn’t value his life— which, unlike popular belief, he did. Natasha is off somewhere in Middle East, Clint said once. She is probably choking out information with her thighs of doom, Bruce had added—which is kind of safe to say, now that Natasha is nowhere hanging around the tower completing how much time it would take to kill one of them. 

“But man, those thighs though.” Tony says, sipping into his hot coffee with plain gratefulness. Jesus, he should fund out some Brazilian farmers for these. 

“I heard that you are a man with many interest but I never thought choking would be one of ‘em.” Steve says, from somewhere behind him. Tony turns too fast, spilling some on the coffee on Clint’s feet who just jumped and cussed. Bruce almost giggles, watching his flummoxed expression. He could swear Steve was just trying not to grin, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. 

“Did you just—you sassy little shit.” Tony pointed his finger at now shrugging Steve who is drenched, perhaps in his own sweat—which should be an ew factor but Tony was really really thirsty somehow. A slick drop of sweat rolled down his taunt neck, sliding till it reached the overly tight tee—which was obviously stuck to his impossible abs and—oh god, his nipples were poking out. This guy, from 40s or not, had no basic sense of decency. There is nothing on him that screamed he knew what to obviously not to wear in public. Until, of course, Steve knew what he was doing; which kind of made Tony angry and turned on at the same time. 

Clint, who competes with Tony on ‘who’s the biggest asshole’, nudges him slightly with a sly grin. Tony contemplates the ‘happy kitty’ upgrade and stamps his left foot hard on the archer’s toe—Clint makes a weird, dead animalistic sound and scrunches his face up as if he just smelled fart—that made Steve look over with a concerned face, eyeing Tony suspiciously who just shrugged pointing at an unsuspecting Bruce and mouthing ‘gas bomb’. 

Steve nods but Tony’s sure he is calling it utter BS. 

 

“Sir, Agent Coulson is calling. Shall I patch him through?” Jarvis asks. 

 

“Yes, please.” Steve answers instead of Tony who is still mulling over the cons of saying no. There is a brief static sound before Agent Coulson’s voice booms over the entire room. 

 

“Avengers,” He says, “Assemble at quadrant 24 within ten. The x-men are already there.”

 

“What?” Clint whines, “Why do we have to work with those dipshits?”

 

“Language.” Steve says, or—Tony thinks—the captain says. 

 

“Haha, you should be around Wolverine. Dude’s deep into language—“

 

“Can it Hawkeye, You all have nine minutes to assemble,” Coulson interrupts, but calmly. As if he is polishing his nails and not sending a group of misfits to save the day. 

 

“What are the casualties? Should I go along?” Bruce asks, breathing deeply

 

“Dr. Banner, you can wait in the quinjet for backup call.” 

 

Bruce nodded finishing his Nepali tea whose taste would have popped a vein already, Clint whines and retires along with Captain to retrieve their suits. Tony moves towards the lab already giving orders to Jarvis to prepare the Mark V. Finally the energy, the itchy need to fight like rabid dogs will at least take some time off.

 

“Are you sure, sir? Will the Mark V be competent enough?”

 

“Jarvis, Coulson is just playing with us. I don’t think this is a serious threat. I bet it’s Doom again.” 

 

“Recent activates show that it is not Victor Von Doom; it’s still unclear as to who it is but he Is using something called ‘Decimator 500’.” 

 

“Another Dr. Doofensmirtz? Run a data check.”

 

“Very well, sir.”


	2. The one where they are in an unhealthy relation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> another one. If you want me to continue this, then hit up the comments or ask in my blog. This will probably see a large amount of unhealthy relationship to start and people disapproving (not homophobia? um?) so. Lotta angst

Monday mornings were bleary, crusty eyed and ugly. Sundays were never Tony’s favorite; the impending doom of 8’o clock depression kept him struggling with unsolicited anticipation and also, those fucktards of super-villains had something against off-time. That being said Steve is trying to wake him up. 

“Tony,” Steve says, voice a little tired, “Tony, Tony, Tony, Tony—” 

 

“What the fuck is wrong you? I said five minutes more—why can’t you count—“

 

“You said that 20 minutes ago, if you don’t wake up now Pepper is going to have my head.” 

“She is bluffing. And I still have like, half an hour.” Tony tires, pulling the sheets over his head and under his legs, sliding into a perfectly large cocoon and holding the endings tightly (He is a 40 year old kid, okay?). His head hurts, his shoulders hurt, his hips hurt and hell, his dick hurts. If his mind can’t stop being a teenager every time Tony sees Steve on his bed, god forbid, he will have to find a proper burial for his dick since it probably will fall off soon.

(And note to self: he needs to buy Steve a horde of small pretty things, like pink lacy panties for example) 

“Half an hour.” Steve repeats, face probably breaking into a frown, “Your boards meeting is in 20 minutes.” Tony can feel the twitch of Steve’s eyebrows and he smothers a giggle, the solider probably is an inch away from slamming Tony’s head against the bed-post in a totally unsexy way. 

“I am Tony Stark and I am fashionably late, bitch.” Also, Tony needs to work on his early morning vocabulary. 

“Y’know, before we were in a relationship you used to be so sweet to me. Calling me pet names—”

 

“Bitch is a pet name too. I call Pepper a bitch—”

 

“—was that all just to woo me, Mr. Stark?” There is something leaning against his back, the heavy body of a super solider perhaps. Steve’s finger drew soft circles on his shoulder blades, kissing them occasionally and Tony sighed even though there is nothing but warmth against the sheet. 

“Woo? I swept you off your feet, literally.” He retorts because he did that exactly that, swept Steve off the battle ground and asked him out.

“I was scared that if I said ‘no’ you would let go of me.” Steve says . He pulls at the sheet, trying to gather Tony up. 

“Hey,” Tony murmurs. He turns towards Steve watching the mirth in his eyes—ocean crashing into the sky, deep and breathable, so reflective—and cranes his neck so that he can kiss him. It’s a Monday kiss; soft and closed—lazy and unwillingly to leave. Somehow, Steve opens his mouth coaxing Tony’s tongue into his mouth and moans sharply. Steve likes kissing, Tony was sure of it (even if he had morning breath.)

 

“I will burn myself before I let go of you.” He says earnestly, feels the muscle of Steve’s arm tense up before he is smiling, again. 

 

Then, out of nowhere, the sheet is completely pulled off of him. He hisses because its damn fucking cold and Steve just pulled away the warmth without any warning. 

 

“Jesus Christ on a disco stick, you are a bitch.” Tony whines.

 

“Get up and get yourself together for the board meeting, Tony.” Steve tries to pass it off seriously. He grins a moment later and walks out of their joint bedroom.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr: [eyethefluff](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/eyethefluff)


End file.
